Convenient Distractions
by linnie kinda spinnie
Summary: "She knows this man, the whole of goddamn Gotham knows this man. He is infamous, he is a damn household name. Deep purple suit, sickening green vest; the colour of bruises. Green hair to match; greasy, tangled, too long, the roots showing. And his face, oh god it's hardly a face. It's a swirling mess of white, black and red. A cruel, sick joke on a child's war paint."
1. Chapter 1

**WARNING: Long author rant, ye been warned**

**Hello, and welcome to my re-entrance into TDK fandom. I love it here, but for awhile there I lost a lot of confidence in myself, especially when writing the Joker, because he is a hard guy to perfect. And then I realized that my version of him doesn't need to be perfect, and nor does my writing. And so, after a dream very similar to this story, I decided that I love to write, I love the Joker, so why not do both without having to worry so much. **

**Therefore, I can't promise perfection, I will try my best to stay true to the Joker's true character, because I hate OOC characters. As well, the only person who has edited this is me, and only a little cos I'm pretty lazy. This is a multi-chapter fic, but it is all about one night and only really features my OC and the Joker.**

**Next chapter the rating will go up to M. Alright, I'm done now. Enjoy!**

The Red Dress

As hard as it is to admit, all that happened was because of what Vanessa Boyden was wearing.

Well, technically all that happened was because of a certain deranged clown, but the only reason why she and he had anything to do with one another was because of her dress.

The dress was a gift from her mother for her twentieth birthday, and two years later it remained her favourite thing in her closet. A lacy red number; satin underdress, just two shades or so darker than the lace overlay. Sleeves to her elbows, skirt down to above her knees, and a slim brown belt to emphasize the waist. And a vibrant shade of scarlet. A bold colour, a perfect colour for her tanned skin and dark brown to caramel ombre hair.

That night she accompanied it with high-heeled brown ankle boots, black winged eyeliner, and a white flower stud in the cartilage of her ear.

But this is boring you, isn't?

You don't care about what she is wearing. You only care about how this girl could possibly have a connection to the criminal known as The Joker.

Quite simply, the Joker is a man of many whims, and Vanessa Boyden is a girl of sporadic stupidity. Oh, she is by no means a dumb girl, not with an eighty-five average in high school, and being top three in her media studies course at University of Gotham. But, like every young adult, she has the immortality complex. She is untouchable, unsinkable, nothing can hurt her, and nothing can kill her. And in a city like Gotham, that is a very dangerous mind frame.

Therefore, when she decided to turn in early after a night on the town with some of her girl friends, she should have taken the cab like her friends advised. But she wanted the fresh air, you see. But her apartment was only four blocks away, you see.

But there was a van, you see.

And there were orders, and there was an opportunity.

Vanessa did not even have a moment to panic before the van was beside her, a man was beside her, a needle was inside her, and the darkness was coming at her.

**{/|\\\}**

And here we are. Time for the tense to change.

**{/|\\\} **

Vanessa stares at a ceiling that is an awful shade between yellow and grey. Yellow from age, grey from decay. And, a shade that she is not familiar with. Her ceiling is beige, her parents ceiling is white, and her best friends' ceiling is light blue.

She does not know where she is.

She sits up, and the colours rush at her, so she slumps back down onto the bed, clutching her head.

"Ohh," she moans, her voice sandpaper and uneven edges. She blinks to banish the cobwebs, then she sits up more slowly. She looks around. She can't be sure, but she thinks she's in a basement. The room is a perfect square, spacious, and drafty. The only light comes from the bulb attached to the ceiling fan. There are no windows. There is a door on the wall to the left of her, and wooden staircase on the opposite side of the room that lead up to an off-white door.

The human mind is a funny thing. Rather than concentrate on the fact that she has been kidnapped (_that she has no idea where she is, or why she is here_), Vanessa's mind focuses on those stairs. She stands up from the bed, her legs wobbling. She wants those stairs. She feels like if she can just get up those stairs, she'll be okay. She takes a step, and her legs buckle beneath her. She lands on one knee, and the pain knocks some of her old sense into her.

Now when she looks around, it is frantic. Oh god, where is she, what happened? Why—

The van, the men, the needle.

"Oh my god," she says, and she scrambles for the stairs. She reaches the bottom of the staircase, tripping and floundering on her way there but always picking herself back up, and she is about to mount it when she hears something.

Voices. Men's voices. Loud, obnoxious, _aggressive_. The men who drugged her, who took her, who put her in this room. She falls back with a small cry, and crab walks back to the bed, and then hops onto it. Where's her purse? If she can find her purse, then she can call someone—

Idiot, as if they would let her keep her purse. And, where are her shoes? She looks down at her mismatched socks: one black, one orange with polka dots. They took her shoes. What else did they take? Her hands run over her body. Nothing painful, no aches. She checks her underwear, and her bra. They seem fine too.

What do they want, what could they want? A plaything, a chew toy? Someone to strap a bomb to? Ransom? But she's a nobody; her parents are nobody's from Star City. She doesn't have money; she has barely enough money to get a week worth of macaroni and cheese. She doesn't have connections, or important friends. She is just another face.

And soon to be another statistic.

"Oh my god," she says again, her voice breaking off into a sob. And the levy breaks, and the tears flood.

**{/|\\\}**

There is no way to be sure how long she cried for. Enough to make her skin feel raw from the salt, and her eyes prickly and dry. She takes several deep breaths, squeezes out the last two tears, then she stares at the stairs again. Even with some lucidity, she still wants them. The stairs are freedom, and _oh god_ she wants it, she wants out of this fucking basement. So she strains her ears, and she listens. And she hears—

Silence.

The loud, obnoxious, _aggressive _voices, they are silent. Are they gone? Did they leave, step out, assume she's still knocked out so it's safe to go? She doesn't care, the silence is golden, and so are those stairs. She teeters to her feet, the cement ground icy even through her socks. She keeps her eyes focused on those stairs, like if she looks away they'll disappear. She's at the foot of the staircase. There are seven wooden steps. She takes the first one, the second, third.

The fourth one creaks.

The sound is startling enough to make her yelp, and jump back down, landing on her butt on the hard cement ground. Her eyes, she thought they were too dry, but they fill with tears at the pain in her backside. She stands up, rubbing her backside absentmindedly, cursing through gritted teeth. She takes the first step, second, third, skips the fourth right to five—

Movement. Far off, somewhere else in the building, she hears a door open. Shut. Footsteps.

Her reaction is instant. She crouches on all fours on the stairs, and peeks through the crack at the bottom of the door. The light is greyish and grainy, but she wants to bathe in it, and then run as fast as she fucking can, call the police, and go home. But the footsteps. Who is it? Is it one of the men? Has he come to hurt her? Her fingers start to tremble, so she closes them into a fist, but the vibration spreads through her body. She is shivering, not from the cold and not even from fear. Impatience. She wants out.

Right fucking now.

So she presses her ear to the door, and listens. If there is only one person there, she thinks she can take them. She may not be a fighter, but she is not some cherubic little thing. She's the tallest in her group of friends, a respectable five foot eight. Not huge, but certainly no goddamn pixie. And with the adrenaline speeding through her blood vessels right now, she can't see how she won't have a chance at beating whoever is in the house.

But she doesn't want to be hasty. She wants to play this smart, make it clean. So she listens to the footsteps. They move around the house, the speed leisure. They get closer, they veer off, and for a moment she can't hear them at all. She blinks, confused, and she ducks down to stare through the crack. The grainy light spreads over her face.

And then it doesn't.

Twin shadows take up the light, and it's all she can do not to reel back, and scream.

He is in front of the door. He is standing right in front of the door. He is right. Fucking. There.

Vanessa slaps her hand over her mouth, squeezing at her cheeks, forcing even her breathing to be more silent than death. She watches those two twin shadows, praying to God (_who has clearly been ignoring her lately)._ Please let them go away, please please.

Then, a miracle. Footsteps walk away from the door, and from the sound of them, to another room.

Vanessa slowly releases her mouth, ignoring the numb feeling, unaware of the white marks her hands left on her face. She presses her ear to the door, and she hears the footsteps disappear. She takes a deep breath, then another, then she stands. She stares at the chipped, greasy looking doorknob, her fingers twitching. She closes her eyes, readies her muscles to run and run and run and run and run—

She grabs the doorknob and —

So does the person on the other side of the door. The violent twisting of the knob makes her scream, and jump back. Luckily she doesn't fall this time, only stumbles back toward to the middle of the room. Panting heavily, sweat beading down her nose (_that's where it always starts, the sweat starts at her nose) _she stares at the door with eyes that are all kinds of wide, as it swings slowly open.

A figure.

Obviously male. Tall, looks thin, but it's too dark to tell. No features can be seen. But there is something about the way he stands in the doorway. Something about the way she can tell he is staring at her. Needles prick at her skin under the influence of his gaze, and the air grows heavy around her. She jumps violently when they door is slammed shut. Her breathing is too loud in her ears; she is taking up all the oxygen in the room with how heavy it is. But she can't slow it down, she can't ease it out. She can't seem to get enough air.

The man takes the first step down. She flinches. The second, third. She jerks back a step when the stair creaks at the fourth step. Fifth, sixth—

"Oh god," she whimpers, too quiet for him to hear.

He steps into the light.

Oh god.

Oh god.

_Oh God._

She knows this man; the whole of goddamn Gotham knows this man. He is infamous; he is a damn household name.

Deep purple suit, sickening green vest; the colour of bruises. Green hair to match: greasy, tangled, too long, the roots showing.

And his face, oh god it's hardly a face.

It's a swirling mess of white, black and red. A cruel, sick joke on a child's war paint.

Oh yes, she knows this man.

The Joker smiles at her, baring his yellowed teeth, and the instinct to drop to the floor is overwhelming. In the animal kingdom, baring your teeth is a sign of aggression, and there is something awful, something raw and intensely feral about this man, and something in her responds to it. Something in her urges her to either prostrate herself in the hopes of mercy, or run, and don't fucking stop.

At the moment, she is unable to do either. Her legs lock her in place, and her eyes lock onto him. The Joker drinks in the attention for a moment, before sidling closer. She responds with a firm step back. He doesn't seem to mind, his smile just gets bigger.

Oh god, oh god, what does he want, what does he want, _whatdoeshewantwhatdoeshewant_—

"Ah, hel_lo,_" oh how she jumps. That voice, it's been on the TV countless times, talking, laughing, yelling. But it doesn't prepare her. It makes her stomach turn, and her ears ring. Clowny and sibilant, teasing and threatening. Popping syllables, stressing consonants, putting emphasis on odd words. Wrong, so wrong. Everything about this man-creature-thing is so wrong.

The Joker frowns, his _(mangled)_ mouth drooping dramatically. He takes another step. She takes another one back. There's something primal about his posture. Shoulders up, rigid, like all his muscles are coiled. Ready. His head aligns with the awkward line of his shoulders, his neck stretched out. His head lolls on his neck, and his walk is more a lope, an animal stride, than anything else.

"No hello ba_ck_, doll face?" he asks, his tongue snaking out to swipe over his lips. It makes the red make-up glisten in the low lights, like blood. She feels nauseous. More sweat beads down her nose. Her muscles wail at her, but she is afraid that if she moves too suddenly, he'll see an opportunity to leap at her, to tear her apart.

His eyebrows lift expectantly, waiting for her response, but her muscles in her jaw are clenched too tightly. It's not about defiance, not really. It's about feeling out of control. She feels like she doesn't have control over her own body now, and she is afraid that somehow, if she speaks, he will have all the control.

_Click_

Her eyes, if possible, widen further, at the familiar sound. She knows the sound of a switchblade being opened. Her brother loved to play with his, until the day their mother took it away from him. And then he just got another anyway. But with Stephen, it was just her stupid little brother, playing around, and she was always more worried about him hurting himself.

This knife is ghastly looking. Sharp, glistening. Held tight in gloved hands, the leather squeaking as he tightens his grip. A threat, oh she knows this is a threat. So, she finds her voice.

"Hello," she croaks, a sound she has never made before. She is the one who laughs the loudest, who makes the most crass jokes, who doesn't have an inside voice. This person she's being, this scared little thing— she doesn't know her. She doesn't like her.

Instantly, the Joker's face brightens, but he doesn't put the knife away. She keeps her eye on it. He abruptly starts walking toward her, his worn shoes squeaking on the cement ground, and the reaction is instant. She backs away rapidly, until she realizes she is running out of space. A few more steps, and she'll collide with the bed, and she really, _really _does not want to be on a bed with him in the room. So she swerves last minute, avoiding the bed, and backing closer to the left wall. The Joker notes her change of direction, and snickers, licking his chops zealously. He stops, not far away enough to be comfortable, but enough that she can keep the panic at bay.

"So, uh, Vanessa," she starts, then recoils at the sound of her name on his lips, and he notices, because a foil grin curves over his painted face, "It is Va_ness_a, isn't it?" he hisses, rocking on the balls of his feet. She can feel the restlessness radiating off him. He is just playing around now, just teasing. Leading up to the main event. Foreplay. She shudders.

"That's what the ID in your purse says, anyway," he goes on, bobbing his head up and down rapidly, his eyes, black, the whites too white, looking side to side impatiently. A crazed beast, a rabid dog, does the same thing. She is silent again, and the air thickens with his growing frustration. She isn't playing along. He doesn't like that. He smacks his lips, and he eyes her, his face contorting. By his side, his fingers dance impatiently in the air, then clench together, then release, over and over. She stares back at him, afraid to look away, afraid to make a sound. Finally, he's had enough. He snarls in his throat, wholly unsatisfied by her silence.

He starts toward her again, and this time she cowers, squeaking out a single "_Please._"

The Joker stops, blinks and the frustration is gone. He is mercurial, he is unhinged, and she is trapped in a room with him.

He opens his mouth, and then closes it again. He pauses, and then takes a moment to fully drink her in. His eyes, dark eyes that remind her of gasoline, meander over her body, in no hurry. A tourist seeing the sights, an artist admiring his handiwork. It's enough to make the shivers physically vibrate her until she is a ball of shuddering dread and barely concealed whimpers.

"They did _good_."

**Yes, I enjoy cliffies. Sorry I'm not sorry. So, I have about three chapters done, but I can't guarantee how often this story will be updated since I am finishing up my last year of high school right now (actually, this one of my many sources of procrastination, I should be working on school work right now). **

**If you have the time or the urge, please send me a review, criticism or the ilk. Have a wonderful day. **

_**linnie **_


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello, and welcome to the second installation. First, I would recommend re-reading the previous chapter if you haven't read it in awhile, as this chapter starts right where it left off. **

**Second, this story will change to M next chapter. This chapter already dances on the fine line between T and M. Which brings me to the warnings: swearing, disturbing content, and some aggressive and lewd behavior. If you dislike all of that, I apologize but this story is not for you.**

**Also thank you to those who followed, favourited and reviewed.**

**Happy reading and enjoy your day.**

**Disclaimer: Alas and alack, I own the Joker not. **

You're Hard to Look at

"They did _good_," his voice, it's always a shock, a horrible husky, but nasally, and unnatural shock. The Joker smirks at her mismatched socks, and then he lets his gaze wander back up. His eyes linger over her dress, and he tilts his face in a way that reminds Vanessa of a snake, bobbing its head, waiting to strike.

"I asked my guys to find something red," he continues, glancing at her face for a moment, leering at her, "They, ah, did _much _better than I expec_ted._"

"_What?_" it comes out of her mouth before she can stop it, loud and aggressive, and the regret is sickening when he smiles in delight at her. A new pet, performing its first trick.

"I li_ke _the colour _red,"_ is all the explanation he offers, his face twisting into a wicked smile that smears the white, red, black of his face all together.

Suddenly, her stomach cramps up, and when he becomes too hard to look at, she turns jerkily away to face the wall. It is childish, it is absurd. The Joker is still there, even though she can no longer see him. And if anything, she is far more vulnerable with her back turned (_isn't that one of the things they say __**not**__ to do when faced with a wild animal?_). But she can't help it. She can't just stand there staring at him, and watch him stare at her.

The wall she stares at now is grey, not a soft grey or a dark one, but a rotted grey, a grey that was once a different colour. There are scrapes and suspicious looking stains, (_and are those bullet holes?_) but it's still better than looking at the man-thing behind her.

She hears him sputter with laughter behind her, and it makes her muscles clench up in an instinctual, highly primal way. Everything in her wants to be far, far away from this man. Her nerve endings scream at her to get away, to escape, but he is blocking her path to the door, and any way she goes to flee, he'll be able to get her. So the wall is her only option.

He walks towed her, slowly because this is about intimidation, not haste. She whimpers, and shuffles forward, until her nose is nearly touching the plaster, until there is nowhere to go but through the wall, and _oh god _she wishes she could. Shaking hands clench into trembling fists. She hears the Joker giggle quietly, his hot breath suddenly on the back of her head, wafting through her tussled hair. Her shoulders sag with a helplessness that is astounding in its strength, and she rests her feverish forehead on the wall, and in another world, a different circumstance, the coolness of it would be comforting. But not here, not now.

A hand suddenly slams onto the wall beside her head, and she shrieks, the sound bouncing off the wall and back into her face. Her head bumps against the wall with the ferocity of her reaction. She tries to flatten herself to the wall, to steel herself against whatever else is to come. The Joker's nose presses into the crown of her head, and he breathes in deeply for a moment, and stills. She stills too, a deer, a mouse, prey, contemplating the value of its own life in the face of a hunter. Then he hums low in his throat, moves closer, and presses his front against her back; his legs braced against hers, his hips against her backside, his chest against her back, his nose in her hair. Her shoulders immediately seize up, coming up to her ears, in an attempt to create distance, any kind of distance, from him.

"Why'd ya turn away?" The Joker asks, his voice an amused rumble in her ear. Oh he knows why, the bastard knows why she turned from him, he just wants to hear it, wants to thrive on it.

"Please," she says instead, because that is what you are supposed to say in this situation, because that is all the mind can conjure. As if that one word, that one polite inquiry, will suddenly unleash some sort of humanity. You'd think she'd know better. The Joker doesn't put on the make-up to appear more human, he doesn't laugh with destruction to seem empathetic. But she needs to try, wouldn't you?

"Oh hush," he admonishes, sounding disappointed, "Don't be _boring," _he makes a point of clenching the hand near her head into a fist, the squeal of leather enough to make her want to take her please back, to beg for forgiveness, but she wisely suppresses those urges.

"Now, tell _Daddy _what he wants to know," he shifts his body, leaning harder into her. Not enough to hurt, but to _remind. _

Oh god, she's forgotten the question, she's forgotten what he asked—

"Because," oh thank god, she remembers, but her answer, it's awful, he's going to— "It's h-hard to look at you."

She's going to die.

He is going to tear her to pieces, vivisect her, play with her insides, and laugh while doing it.

And he does laugh, but he doesn't whip out a knife, or slam her head into the wall like she expected him to. No, he just laughs hard and long, the volume increasing at a startling rate, his body thrumming and vibrating against her. So extreme is the hilarity that he must take a step back from her for a moment to regain his composure, and she is grateful for the moment, in order to just breathe.

But then he is pushing into her again, surging against her, breathing huskily into the side of her neck. Her lungs forget how to function.

"So I'm, ah, _hard," _he presses his hips into her, making her breath hitch painfully, "To look at? Hmm?"

"I'm sorry, please I don't—"

"_Shhhh,"_ he hisses, his teeth grazing her neck, threatening to bite, so she clamps her mouth together, and clenches her jaw. The Joker waits a moment, to ensure that he has her attention, and then he starts again.

"Care, uh, care to explain that little _state_ment of yours, angel face?"

She is forced to unlock her jaw, unhinging it to sing like the trapped little bird she is. She licks her dry lips, and thinks of something to say. Something intelligent enough to impress, but not smart enough to anger.

"Y-you, oh-h, you," Vanessa stops, inhaling and exhaling deeply, and then she starts again, only a little more steady, "You are hard to look at, because… because everything about your face is enhanced."

He 'hmm's', then he is silent for a moment, mulling over her words. Beside her, his fist has relaxed so his palm is flat against the wall.

"_Enhanced_?" he stretches out the syllables of the word, his voice playing sibilantly in her ear.

"Yes," she whispers, the wobble in her voice pathetic to her own ears.

"Explain," he demands, abruptly less concerned about intimidating her, and more concerned about satisfying his own curiosity. He even leans back a bit; not nearly enough to have a semblance of comfort, but enough, it is still enough.

"Th-the, mmm, the make-up. It—it," take a deep breath, you need oxygen to be able to speak, silly girl, "It enhances your face—uh, I mean your features. In your face."

Oh god, she is an idiot, a stuttering fucking idiot.

He is quiet, but not in a comforting way. His silence, and the way his forefinger begins to tap on the wall, tells her _'well, go on'._

"The black paint, it makes your eyes look… empty?" she can't help the inflection in her voice, it happens when she starts to panic. It happened while watching _Jaws_, it happened when she was lost in a crowd in NYC when she was thirteen, and it is happening now.

"A-and, the white, just sort of makes you look… too human and too not human," (_she is making no sense_), "And the red, it makes the sca—" she doesn't want to talk about them; she doesn't want to talk about the things that first made the Joker famous, besides the make-up. But his hand twitches, and it's too late, she must finish her sentence.

"Makes the scars so obvious, like—l-like you're proud of the violence, like you wear it like a badge because you, um, you survived? Like you enjoyed the aggression. And all of it, a-all of it together, just makes your face so—"

"Hard to look a_t_," the Joker finishes for her. She nods, her head bumping his nose. She hears him lick his lips, the muscle gliding over ruined flesh. He laughs through his nose, nasal and at ease, his body draping languidly over hers.

"It's _funny,_" he chortles close to her ear, and she shies away from his closeness, "You find it hard to look at me. But all I wanna do rig_ht _now is. Look. At. You."

And his other hand is on her left thigh, making her jump and bounces off him then back into the wall. His hand, swaddled in cold leather that smells like gasoline, smooths slowly up her thigh, shucking up her dress as it goes. His fingers tighten around the lacy fabric for a moment, appreciating the material.

"I _really do_ like the colour re_d,_" he murmurs into her ear, his teeth nudging her earlobe. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the ragged head of curly, acidic green hair, and the black oil slicks on his eyes, and _oh god _the red that has made its home in the crevices and cracks of his damaged face. So she turns her face away, clenches her eyes shut. But she can't distant herself; her skin is too over stimulated, hyper sensitive as it scuttles at the feel of the leather on her bare flesh.

He brings his hand higher up her thigh, bringing her dress up with it, and each inch of skin that is exposed is torturous. She doesn't want him to see her, which was part of why she turned away. Because his eyes stripped her bare. And now without being able to see him, he's still stripping her. The Joker has a way of making you feel completely useless, completely without defenses against him. He makes your muscles melt, and your bones become brittle. He makes your thoughts disorganized, and your voice pointless.

His hand reaches her hip, and for one ridiculous moment, she wonders what underwear she is wearing. She hopes for boy shorts, and begs silently that it is not one of her thongs. The dress bunches above her hips, kept in place by his body against hers. The air against her newly bared skin makes her flesh want to scuttle off her bones. She shifts beneath him, to the side, just a little bit, but he follows, not wanting one inch of her to be uncovered.

And because she has to, she has to know, she asks, "Are you going to rape me?"

The Joker's hand pauses, just for a moment, before it glides up and around, his palm pressing against the curve of her belly. Her stomach sucks in reflexively, her skin writhing under his hand. Her breathing becomes fast, becomes hard, as she waits for the answer. His hand then travels down, until the tips of his fingers touch the top of her underwear.

Chuckling, he replies, "Depends, s_weet _cheeks. You in the _mood_?" Then he hoots with laughter, before his hand dips under her undies. A strangled whine builds in her throat, and is released into a high-pitched keen that shakes her entire frame. She throws her head back and forth, arches her back, like _this is not real, this is not real, this is not real…_

"Oh please," it gurgles out of her closing throat, but he just growls against her ear. His hand cups her, and she whines again, a purely animal part of her, a desperation born out of her most basic instincts. She does not want this man _touching _her; she does not want him _near_ her. She wants to escape, _get away get away getawaygetawaygetawaygetaway._

Oh god, she wants to fight. She wants to slam her head against his painted fucking face, and then ram her elbow into his gut. She wants him to stumble back or maybe fall on the ground. She wants to whirl around, and break his nose with her fist, crush his groin with her foot. She wants the red on his face to be his blood. She wants to show him that she is not an object to be used, that she is not useless, that she is strong.

But all Vanessa can do is tremble on buckling legs, shake her head back and forth, and moan in desperation. A sheen of sweat covers her, and beads of it trail down her back, soaking into her dress, stinging her oversensitive skin. She wonders, briefly, why she is not crying, why the tears aren't streaming down her face, covering her face in a gooey mess of salt, mascara and snot. Maybe the hysteria is beyond tears, maybe even her tear ducts are in denial.

His teeth are grazing the side of her neck, and his other hand moves her long hair out of the way so his fingers can fiddle with the zipper of her dress. His hand, the one in her underwear, is still, other than random spurts of finger twitching, but it is a heavy, dreadful presence. His hips suddenly push against her backside, pushing her body fully against the wall, pushing his hand fully against her. She wails at the sudden pressure, but the sound is strained as the air is unexpectedly pushed out of her.

It's when he starts to suck on a piece of her skin that she finally finds her voice.

"I-I…I-" start again, deep breaths, deep breaths, "I have mo-money in my purse, and credit cards."

The Joker freezes. His frame becomes stiff, rigid, and she knows she has said the wrong thing.

**If you have the time, the will, the urge or the random desire for some typing, please leave a review, whether it be encouragement, criticism or a question. All is welcome. **

_**linnie **_


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you to all those who reviewed, followed and favourited this story. To answer my guess reviewer Emma, this is not technically a PWP story; it will not just be mindless sex. It's more of a character study; how does a normal girl react to a dangerous situation. I wanted to make her realistic, but with just enough flare that she wouldn't be gutted right away. **

**It is now rated M for explicit sexual content in later chapters.**

**This chapter contains: violence, sexuality, coarse language.**

**Disclaimer: I own Vanessa, that's really about it.**

Attention Seeker

"_I-I... I-" start again, deep breaths, deep breaths, "I have mo-money in my purse, and credit cards." The Joker freezes. His frame becomes stiff, rigid, and she knows she has said the wrong thing. _

He releases her skin with an audible _pop. _Oh god,he's going to rape her, hurt her, kill her, and oh please don't hurt her, _please don't hurt her_—

In a brutal, jerky movement, one hand wraps around her hair, while the other hand's fingers press down _hard_ on sensitive nerve endings. He yanks her head back, making her vision blur, her neck bend at an unnatural angle. He pulls her hair until she is looking him in the eye, his face looming over hers, upside down, contorted, _awful_, so awful. His yellow teeth are bared at her, sharp and animal. Meanwhile, his fingers press against the sensitive nub, and the conflicting sensations (_startling pain and agonizing pleasure) _make her sick. She is nauseated from fear and her own senses. She feels his brutal touch; she smells his acrid scent of gasoline, sweat and smoke. She sees his painted, snarling face, can taste the staleness of terror in her mouth, she can hear his heavy panting, her own heartbeat.

"You thi_nk_ this is about _money?" _he hisses in her face, his eyes wide and black and white with fury, madness.

"_I don't know what this is about!_" she says, too loudly (_don't anger him, don't anger him_).

"Please, _please,_ just tell me what you want, just don't h-hurt me," she hiccups the last words, tears finally starting to fill her eyes. _Oh god no; _he is going to take his time killing her, and she doesn't want to die, _oh my god_ she wants to live. Her hands come up to grab his wrist, not hard, but to relieve some tension on her scalp, to remind him that she is human, not a toy, not a thing.

He just yanks harder, shaking her like a rag doll.

"I_t's _not about _money_," he barks, seething, an inch from her face; his spit lands on her cheek, "No, no, no, _no. _It's _never_ about the money. Money means _nothing."_

"_Please, please, please_," she is hysterical, she doesn't know what's coming out of her mouth anymore, "I don't understand, why did you take me—"

"You do_n't _un-der-_stand?"_ he spits, staring at her face for a split second, before wrenching her head back, and slamming her forehead against the wall. She yelps, then groans, her vision exploding into white. The nausea builds, stinging her throat with bile, but she swallows it back down, gulping and sobbing. When her vision comes back, she is aware that his hand is now clamped around her neck, and his other hand is holding a knife against her side. It digs in, pricking her skin. She whimpers and whines like a trapped animal, her hands scrabbling at the wall, nails chipping off.

"Le_t_ me _help you._ Under_stand_," he sneers, snapping her face to the side, so she can see his face-his awful, horrible face- out of the corner of her eye. He presses her so hard against the wall; her bones creak, her tired joints crack, and she can't breathe, _she can't breathe_. He pauses to make sure he has her attention, tightening his grip on her neck. She can feel the fingertip bruises settling into her skin.

"You are here, because you were_ convenient_," he says it slowly, like she is a wayward child, a misbehaving pet. His tongue flicks over his scars, and he nods at his own words.

"You are _heeeeere,"_ he sing songs, his face stretching into an elastic, jackal grin, no hint of happiness there, "Be_cause_… I was bor_ed, _and you were _there_. I told my guys to, uh, to find me something in _red,"_ he gives her a quick once over, raising his eyebrows sarcastically, "To _pl_ay with."

That confirms it. She is not a person, not a human. She is nothing more than a toy, something to use and dispose of. A thing. You can't emphasize with a thing. You can only own, only use, only hurt.

"Do. You. Under. _St_and. Now?" he emphasizes each word with a brutal shake to her neck, jarring her already hurt head; she feels her brain slam against the sides of her skull. When she doesn't answer, he yanks her neck back again, and suddenly the knife is in her mouth, pressing against the inside of it, and she feels it pierce her skin, but she is too afraid to scream.

"Huh? I didn't _hear you._ _Do you understand?" _he yells, his voice a bark and a snarl and a thunderclap; the same voice he has used on the TV. It rings in her ears, it makes her legs useless. Oh— _Oh_.

She's going to faint. Her eyes roll up, and her legs give out.

With surprisingly agility, the Joker catches her, stopping her from slithering down the wall and onto the floor. He slips the knife out of her mouth smoothly, managing to only prick the corner of it. He catches her around her middle, and yanks her away from the wall. She's still conscious, but she can't move, she can't make a sound. The Joker mutters under his breath, and then scoops her up in his arms, half over his shoulder, half draped across his chest. For a bony looking guy, he is strong. She's no lightweight, but he seems to be able to carry her across the room with no issues. Distantly, she notes his gait is very uneven, like he's always walking on uneven ground. Although, that might just be because he is carrying her, and that's just insulting.

Vanessa's thoughts don't match the situation at the moment.

Oh, he's putting her on the bed.

Sleep might be good now.

Oh. Oh, why is he taking off the belt on her dress?

Why is he turning her onto her tummy, why is he touching her zipper? He pulls it down, the sound of metal teeth grinding against metal teeth unbearably loud in the small, square room. She struggles weakly, and she thinks she hears him laugh, maybe giggle. How is it that he can make giggles terrifying? Even the word giggle is adorable, but he is so _not _adorable.

He's turning her over, and oh look, the ceiling. That's not her ceiling. Nope, her ceiling is much more pretty.

Her head hurts, ow. So does her lip. Is she bleeding?

He's pulling off her dress now, trying to pull her arms out of the sleeves. She likes this dress, why would he take it off?

"Don't," she murmurs, and he hushes her, then he is looming over her, his face blocking out the ceiling. The colours of his face rush together as he leans toward her and then his mouth is—

Vanessa's mind grinds to a halt, then it kick-starts into action.

She is on a bed, her dress is half off, and the Joker's mouth _is on hers._

Four quick actions: she bites his lips, she screams, pushes him off her, then she scrambles off the bed to huddle in the corner next to the bed. Not the best of places, not ideal, but give her a break. She's had a rough night.

Vanessa stares at the Joker, who is still kneeling on the bed, his hair more even more wild than before, his make-up smeared even more now. She touches her own face, and her fingers come off white and red. She shudders hard. She looks back at his face. Pushes herself further into the wall at the look in his eyes. There is fire there, and hunger. He looks positively starving, and he is looking at her like he wants to devour her, swallow her whole, pick her bones clean. On the corner of his mouth is a bead of blood. She licks her lips (the Joker tracks the movement with his gasoline eyes_) _and tastes blood.

Oh god.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers. Wait.

Why is she apologizing? She didn't ask to be kidnapped, to be attacked. But she feels like she has to say it, because she is sorry. She is sorry she brought something out of him, something more dangerous than anger. She knows that look; she knows what is glinting at her from those dark eyes. The Joker chuckles, licking his grinning lips, and he stands up straight, running a gloved hand through his green hair. He cants his head at her, smiling like he sees something in her, something new.

And likes what he sees.

"Oh, don't _apologize_," he purrs, stepping toward her, his mouth contorting and twitching while he tries to restrain his giggles.

"I do so _en_joy girls like you," he comes closer, a bounce in his step, "Girls with, ah, with…_ gump_tion," he pops the word, liking the sound. He closes in on her, and she pivots on spot, left, then right, but its too late, he has her. The Joker takes her face, with mocking gentility, in his hands, and raises it up, smiling almost fondly at her.

"I like my girls with some… some _fight _in them," he whispers, leaning in, like they are sharing secrets. She tries to wrench her face out of his hands, but he tightens his grip, and gives her a mockingly stern look. He purses his lips, and then adjusts his hold on her face, pinching her chin between one thumb and forefinger. His other hand clutches her shoulder, bracing her against the wall. He narrows his eyes, tilting her head this way, then that, studying her face at all angles. He lifts her face up so she is staring at the ceiling, taking a moment to admire the line of her jaw, before he snaps her face back to his. He blinks and smirks lazily at her. He takes his hand off her face, allowing his fingertips to slide over her jawline slowly. Then he takes a step back, and begins to shrug off his heavy purple jacket, his head bowed down, and eyes on her face. Her eyes go wide, and her breathing increases.

No.

_No, no, no_—

Before she can respond appropriately (_see: scream, fight, run_) he is back in front of her. His gloved hand presses into the hollow between her throat and shoulder, keeping her still, while one of his knees presses its way in between her legs, spreading them. Her hands grab at the skirt of her dress, squeezing, trembling. She turns her face away, and feels his hot breath breeze over her face as he laughs. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his other hand lift, and she flinches violently, only for him to gently brush a wayward strand of hair out of her face. She shivers at the gentle, normal movement. Her father used to do this, her boyfriends have done it. When the Joker does it, it is cruel, mocking; a facsimile of human contact and comfort. His retracts his hand, and pulls off the purple glove with his teeth, letting it fall to the ground. Then his hand is pushing through her hair, his nails scraping against her scalp. She shudders, closing her eyes.

"C'mon, baby cakes. Don't close your eyes. Loo_k_ Daddy in the eye," he whispers huskily, nudging his nose against her left cheek. His finger thread through her thick hair, tugging on the tangled strands, exploring the texture. When she doesn't open her eyes, the Joker tut-tuts her.

Then.

Snake-like, his hands grab the backs of her thighs, tugging her up the wall so they are eye level. Huffing a strangled gasp of surprise, her hands lift up (_like in surrender_) and she clenches her eyes harder. He arranges her easily, wrapping her legs around his waist; he leans his weight into her, not hard enough to crush, but enough that she knows he will keep her there as long as he wants. He presses his forehead against hers, and with her eyes still closed she hears his tongue flick over his lips and scars. Under his breath he chuckles, his fingers flexing against the skin of her thighs.

"Vanessa," she flinches at the sound of her name, "_Op_en your eyes."

She opens them, and focuses on his dark tie.

"Va_ness_a," Jesus, she flinches harder this time, "_Look at me_."

Her eyes slide up, settling on his nose. His jagged fingernails dig into her skin, a warning. So she looks higher, almost wincing at the sight of his face. Her lips wobble, and her breathing sounds more like pathetic little squeaks. It never gets easier; looking at him never becomes any less horrifying.

"There's a good girl," he croons. Then his head streaks forward, and his teeth are in her neck. She shrieks, shrill but muffled, and he bites harder, pushing her harder into the wall. His hips roll against hers. Her hands slam against his shoulders, hitting him, but she feels so weak; all her muscles have melted together. Useless, she is so useless.

"_No, no, no,_" Vanessa moans over and over, trying to thrash, to kick, trying to fight, but he has every part of her pressed and contorted. Controlled and contained. She is his, and he is making sure of it.

She needs to do something.

Think, think. Fucking think!

What will make him listen? What does he like?

Think, go back to the beginning. When was the very first time you ever saw him?

On T.V, he had taken a man hostage. He had a video camera; the man was dressed like Batman. Oh, god what was his name?

It doesn't matter right now!

What did the Joker want then? What the hell does he ever want?

Oh.

_Oh._

He wanted the Batman. Well, fucking no help there, she doesn't exactly have the guy on speed dial.

Okay, besides that, what did the clown want? Come on, _think._

He wanted the Batman to turn himself in, to choose whether or not letting more people die was worth—

That's it. To choose.

Choice.

He made the people choose between killing that guy (his name was like a chocolate bar or something) and blowing up a hospital. He made the people on the ferry's choose which boat was going to get blown up.

It's about the choice, and the chaos that erupts from one little choice. That's how the Joker plays; he makes you choose, he makes you pull the trigger.

Oh, she can use this. But first she needs to get his attention—

The Joker turns abruptly, and her vision whirls. He pulls her away from the wall, and her legs automatically tighten around him so she won't fall. He carries her effortlessly back toward the bed, his mouth never leaving her skin. She whimpers, and he rumbles low in his throat in response. He sets her on the bed, laying her sideways against the width of it, her legs dangling over the end. He leans into her, one leg kneeling on the bed beside her hip, while the other works hers apart.

"Wait—"

His mouth captures her voice. Instinctively, she clenches her mouth, not allowing his tongue in. He grumbles irritably, pressing his mouth harder to hers, stabbing his tongue at the seam of her lips. She makes desperate little noises, needing to speak to him _now_ before this goes too far. She tries shaking him off, but he has the back of her head in his hands, and my god, he is so much stronger than he looks. She's losing air; she'll need to open her mouth soon, and then—

Desperation leads her to raising her hand, thrusting her fingers through his slick hair, and wrenching it as hard as she can. He grunts against her mouth, then moans in his throat, before he obliges her by looking at her face. His face is all hard angles and swirling, sweat thinned make-up. His eyes are dark and heavy, and his mouth is swollen. She keeps her hand in his hair, because she has his attention now, and she'll be damned if she loses it.

"Wait," she says again, softly. Taming an animal. The Joker cocks his head, like he doesn't understand.

"I want—" oh, how does she need to word this? "I would like to—"

"_Yesss?_" the Joker hisses impatiently, one of his hands sliding around to cup her throat; not a threat, not quite, but almost one.

She takes a deep breath, and then says, "I want to make a deal."

**If you have the time please leave a review, I would love to know what you guys think. Other than that, thank you for reading and have a wonderful day.**

_**linnie **_


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